


From a Verse

by Port_of_Morrow



Category: A Man of No Importance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:57:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Port_of_Morrow/pseuds/Port_of_Morrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just some Ralfie I've written. We'll see where it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Robbie leant back in the bus seat, stretching his legs up onto the seat in front of him. Alf sat beside him.  
It was another Friday evening, the day's schedule done and the summer sun lazily receding over Dublin.  
“Wha's that Alf?” the boy's airy voice lit up the bus, as he heard the conductor mumble.   
Alf's face reddened slightly, “It's just verse.”  
“The werld's a stage old man. Go on.”  
And Alf smiled, then cleared his throat, before lifting the small browning book up a little.

“for the boy who loved thee best,”   
he paused, and Robbie lowered his glass Guiness a little.  
Alfie continued.  
“Who's very name.. should be a memory,   
to make thee linger,   
seeps in silent rest,  
Robbie.”

The boy is question chuckled, “Shite- me name's not in there 'sit?”  
“No, no,” Alf waved a hand dismissively. “I just... it's about a boy's name. “Who's very name should be a memory”. It's nice.”  
Robbie shrugged, before quickly sipping his Guiness again. “What- what poem's that from then?”  
Alf noted his driver's voice was a little quieter, a little cracked here and there.  
“Garden of Eros,” he quietly replied.  
And Robbie turned to him, a knee up on the chair and his body turned towards Alf. He reached forward, his cuff stroking Alf's hand as his thin fingers plucked the book from his hand.   
Robbie's thin white thumb flicked a few pages, and then settled. 

“O twining hands,” he read. And as he did, he gazed not up; kept eyes fixed on the page, but shifted his left hand slightly, onto Alf's which rested on the head of the bus seat. He entwined their fingers.  
“O twining hands,  
O delicate,   
White body made for love and pain,   
O house of love,   
O desolate,   
pale flower beaten,” he inhaled slowly,  
“By the rain.”

Robbie didn't move his left hand from Alf's; he just closed the book, and placed it on the seat in between them.  
Alfie spoke first.  
“La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente, quite a mouthful, for a poem's name.”  
Robbie chuckled ever so slightly, and Alf felt how the boy's fingers slid against his own when he did.  
“Wha' d'ye think Wilde meant in that one Alf?”  
“Well the house of love was desolate, so maybe he meant that fallin' in love can sometimes make ye feel empty inside, if it's unreciprocated...”

Robbie continued, strumming his fingers over and inbetween Alf's “And the beaten flower?”  
“Well,” Alf swallowed, “The white body was made for love and pain, I think Wilde was trying to say that most the time; they're one and the same thing.”

And if Robbie gave any warning it was only the sharp intake of breath he took at Alf's voice, because in a verse's beat his head bowed forward and placed a kiss on the edge of Alf's mouth.  
He lifted his lips a second later, Alfie's breath hitched as his body tensed up. He slowly exhaled, before Robbie gasped the very breath from his mouth, his lips brushing against Alf's on their journey to the conductor's other cheek, where a second kiss was left.

Robbie pulled his body back, and his hand, so it rested on his knee. He glanced up to Alf who was caught in a silent stupor, his mouth hanging open slightly and a strange sensation under the skin on his face.

Alf licked his lips, before speaking quite quietly and delicately  
“What did you do that for Robbie?”   
And the boy in question just cocked his head to the side,   
“Because ye said ye feel empty inside, Alf. That's all.”  
“I never said-”  
“Yeah,” Robbie interrupted quietly, “Ye did, mate.”  
And then Robbie rose, shuffling past Alf's body and into the aisle. He raised the back of a finger to Alf's temple, brushing against it slightly.  
“'M off home then.” he murmured.  
Alf nodded, and Rob made his way to the door. He turned,  
“What?” the boy called, a smile breaking out on his face, “Yer not coming?”  
And a smile broke on Alf's face too, as he stood up and turned towards the rest of the day.


	2. The Collage

The air outside in the sun-streaked Dublin evening felt cool on Alfie's face, as he rocked his head back and breathed in the fresh air.  
Robbie glanced at him, before giving a half smile, and walking quietly down the street towards the little red door at the end of Phoenix park.  
Alfie walked beside him, their hands stroked against one another, but they shared an understanding look that it would be good for neither of them to show displays of affection in public.  
Instead they spoke; Alfie first.

“Not going to the pub tonight?”  
“Nah,” Rob smiled, and had to say no more, because he saw a shy smile shine from Alf's face.  
They walked a little further, the red brick buildings of Phoenix close to their right and the ardent gas lamps lining Phoenix Park to their left.  
“It'll be nice to spend an evening in,” the younger man sighed, and then added, “If that's what ye want.”  
“I don't know what I want, really,” Alf trailed off.  
Robbie stopped, and so did Alfie. The two men stood in the middle of the long cobblestone street, the nearly set sun streaming over the stones and mingling with the amber glow of the gas lamps. Robbie chuckled lightly,  
“How'd a Guiness and a set 'fronta the telly sound?”  
“Just fine,” Alfie smiled, and then laughed only because Robbie was, and their voices ignited the air around them which was beginning to grow dark.  
Robbie clapped a hand to the shoulder of Alf's tweed jacket, and without a word they walked the next few yards to the red door, which Robbie clicked open, before swinging open the door and ushering his companion into the darkness.

Robbie flicked the light on, and as he did Alf found himself in some sort of poetic lair, for every inch of the walls was covered in faded curiosities. Strings of postcards, world maps, torn out articles and scraps of magazine pictures. It was beautiful, like a kind of paradise collage; from sloping mountains to white beaches, to photos of film stars and postcards from far away cities. Alf noticed a The Who poster, alongside a collection of greyscale polaroids of Pete Townsend and Ringo Star. Surrounding them were more curiosities; the cover of a paperback James Bond novel, a train ticket to Roscommon dated last year, a ripped poster of a majestic old Bentley...it was like a museum of the inside of Robbie's head

“Oh don't mind that,” Rob chuckled, as he saw Alf lightly finger the edge of a Parisian postcard.  
“It's amazing... you've been to all these places?” the older man asked quietly.  
he heard Robbie call from the kitchenette where he was presumably collecting the Guinesses  
“No, no. 've never left this bloody island. I'd like te, though”  
And Alfie said nothing, but simply removed his scarf and jacket, hung them up, and hungrily devoured the postcards and photos of the places his man wanted to go.

“Cheers, mate,” Rob smiled, handing Alf a beer and standing next to him.  
“What're you lookin' at?” he said quietly, for it was impossible to see what anyone would be looking at specifically, as their eyes glazed over the museum before them.  
“This one,” Alf smiled, as he stroked a sepia photograph with his right thumb. In it were two smiling faces in a crowded bar, many years ago.  
“Things were simpler then, weren't they...” Alf forced a smile,  
“I guess so,” Rob replied, but as Alf drew his eyes from the Robbie in the photo, he noticed that the Robbie in the room wasn't gazing at the photos any more; but at him.

And the Robbie lowered his Guinness onto the television set beside him, and cocked his head to the side.  
“Have you ever been kissed, Alf?”  
Robbie's mouth hung open, the shadow of his nose thrown over his pale jaw.  
A nervous smile broke out on the older man's face, before he coughed indignantly  
“Course, once or twice, why?”  
“'Meant properly, Alf”  
Silence fell again, and Alfie couldn't help but notice how his heart was beating uncomfortably roughly against his ribcage.

“What would a proper kiss be, then?” he asked slowly, noting how the light from the gas lamp on the side reflected the gold specs around Robbie's pupils. 

The boy picked up his Guinness and twirled into the centre of the room,  
“I don't know,” he chuckled gleefully, and Alf leant back on the wall as he watched Rob take a sip of his drink, before throwing his arms right out and crying, “It's like flying! You're the poet old man, you've gotta know the words...” and he smiled so gleefully that the corners of Alf's mouth turned up without them wanting to.  
Robbie continued,  
“Like when you've had too many beers or when ye can't sleep because you had such a good night. And it's more than just foolin' around because it's with someon' you love, right?”  
Alf sipped from the glass bottle before placing it next to Robbie's on the television set. The younger man lowered his arms, stopped moving, before taking a step towards Alf and leaning back on the wall next to him, but his head turned so he could see every shadow thrown against the man's face.

“And is there someone you love, Robbie?”

“What do you think, Alf?” he smiled devilishly before placing a hand on Alfie's elbow,  
“Because I think that if you spouted all that crap 'bout me name 'lingering in silent rest', and didn't want a snog- some could say you were leadin' me on,”  
Alfie's face went red before he bowed it to the ground, “Well,” he swallowed, “That's not, exactly what I had in mind, but erm,”  
And Alf would be lying if he said he couldn't feel the boy's smile when Robbie craned his neck up a little to kiss his slightly open mouth.  
It was short but made Alf's head spin round a hundred times as the light behind his eyes shone bright white, and then faded.  
“But, erm,” Alf opened his eyes, and continued in a stupor, whilst Robbie didn't move his face more than an inch away from Alf's. The older man could feel Robbie's warm breath dance across his own jaw and could almost feel the rough scratch of his stubble against his own.  
He swallowed, “But I think that, that's maybe what I meant I want without meaning to think what I want I needed... you know?”  
“You're so full of it,” Robbie laughed, before turning so he faced Alf properly, end on, and moving his lips with Alf's again, kissing him properly and guiding the older bloke with his right hand on his forearm. This time it was slower and instead of flashing white, the light behind Alf's eyelids glowed red, and then everything was just blurry and quiet and Robbie's lips opened against Alf's, then slowly pulled away.

“You're better than you give yourself credit for mate,” Robbie smiled, a hand on each of Alf's arms.  
“Well, you're young,” Alf shook his head dismissively,  
“So's, the night,”  
And Robbie turned but with Alf's hand clasped in his, and pulled his towards the sofa where he lounged down. “Second part of the night I promised ye,” Robbie sighed, “Was a crap ol' film. Sit down mate.”  
And it hardly mattered what they were watching as Robbie stretched out on the sofa with a satisfying groan, his socked feet crossed over Alf's lap, he felt content for the first time in months. Alfie slumped back as he absent-mindedly stroked Robbie's calves and ankles, his fingertips over the rough wool of the boy's socks.  
The old film played out on the screen in front of them. It was beautiful one about a lad and a girl who works in a bookshop, and all the shots were fuzzy and pale on Robbie's old TV set.  
He sighed.  
“You alright lad?” Alf inquired.  
Robbie just rocked his head back against the arm of the sofa so he was all brown curls and a rough, pale swan's neck.  
“Yeah mate, I'm alright,” he murmured, with a soft kick against Alf's chest.


End file.
